One Hundred and Fifty-One.

broken computers are the saddest thing
all those qwerty keys reclining in dumpster limbo
begging for some fingers to run across them
and remember the words that used to spill
into these long obsolete micro-chips

*

sarah

Around my raised finger folds a small band of silver
The fridge door slams and I catch my own shudder
The night is a huntress and she roars at the doorway
A bear with a bow, pursuer and pursued
Fletching her arrows with half-cocked breaths
Tipping their ends with a crescendo of fear
This flesh is no refuge from the scourges of thought